“Everyone’s is. Except your crew. They all know he’s God,” Reggie said dismissively. “Of course that doesn’t make them any less scared.”
“Maybe I should see how they’re doing.”
“I think you should.” She moved toward the door with him.
“You have an answer for everything,” Marcus said.
“No, I don’t.” Reggie stopped at the threshold. “I just know what to say to make you feel better. But, Marcus,” she reached out and lay her hand on his face, “sometimes there aren’t any answers. Things happen with no explanation. They just do.”
“Not in my book,” Marcus said. “There’s always an explanation. I just have to figure it out.” Peeking back once more, Marcus closed the door. “And, trust me, I will.”
In the clerical office of the laboratory wing, a trembling Rose cried in fits as she spoke on the phone, her mouth inches away from the receiver. “I didn’t expect this,” she sobbed. “He confirmed it. We’re faced with the end. He has to do His work and He’s being prohibited.” Rose shook her head and wiped her eyes. “No. You should hear him speak, see him. There’s no doubt in my mind who He is. And we’ll pay a heavy price, Rev. Bailey, if He isn’t allowed to fulfill His mission. People have a last chance to mend the errors of the past. Yes,” she nodded, “that’s why I called, you must use your influence. You must. Rev. Bailey, I’m...”
Marcus jerked the phone from her hand and finished her sentence; “...fired. Pack your desk up immediately. Security will escort you out. You’re off the team.” He turned to leave.
“You can’t do that!” Rose jumped from her seat. “I’m just trying to...”
“You just breached the confidentiality clause of your employment contract,” Marcus explained, “not to mention your ethics. You leaked vital information to a man who is more a TV star than a man of the cloth. No arguments, Rose. Go.”
“You’re wrong,” Rose stuttered, her voice rising. “Not for firing me, but for oppressing our Savior. You’re facing damnation.”
Marcus chuckled. “Damnation? Savior? Come on, Rose, you’re a scientist. Savior? This is not you talking. You were there for every step of the process that created Devante.”
“I also know why He’s here. It’s the end. And you, Marcus, might be responsible for it if you don’t let him out.”
“No, I won’t,” Marcus said calmly. “He’s a scientific experiment, not the Son of God. If I believed that, then my soul would be as good as damned.” He paused. “You believe what you want. I believe science and reason. The end, you say? Yes, it is. To your relationship with Westing. Good night, Rose.” Marcus turned again and stepped to the door. “Guard.”
Marcus heard a groan behind him. He turned to see Rose snatch up some scissors from the desk, clutch them tightly, and raise her arm. In one fluid motion she rushed and lunged herself at Marcus, screaming madly. “I won’t let you do this!”
She leapt onto Marcus’ back, one arm crooked around his neck. With the other she plunged the pair of scissors deep into his shoulder.
Marcus grunted in pain, trying to shake her off, but she held on with every fiber of her body. Marcus stumbled under her weight.
Wrenching the scissors out, Rose readied for another strike as blood spurted from the puncture wound. Before she could, Marcus reacted. He moved backwards and rammed his assailant against the wall. Rose smashed into the plaster. Screaming in pain, she released Marcus, and slid to the floor.
“Guard!” Marcus yelled. He reached down with his good arm and grabbed the scissors from Rose’s hand, tossing them aside. He then took a jacket from the coat rack and used it to cover the wound.
The guard burst in, looking about the room, and then rushed over to Marcus. “Are you all right, sir?”
“Yes.” Marcus nodded, panting, woozy at the sight of his own blood.
Rose stared up viciously and said, “You should be the one going down, not Christ.”
“Yeah, whatever.” Marcus shook his head. “Guard, restrain her and call the police. She needs a dose of lithium.”
Cringing as the guard neared her, Rose propped herself up using the wall for leverage. She turned to the window. “No!” She pointed a finger at Marcus. “He will cause our demise,” she shouted. “I won’t be around to bear witness!”
Before the guard could read her intention, Rose charged full-force across the office, lunged toward the window and hurled herself through it, glass exploding in her wake. The gathered crowd below burst out in screams of horror as she sailed out and down ten stories.
Marcus ran to the window and peered out. People were milling around Rose’s twisted and lifeless body. He stepped back, unable to look anymore.
In the examination room, Marcus’s black tee shirt was starting to mat with drying blood. Mixed with amniotic fluid, it emitted a sour smell that made him nauseous.
Waiting on John to help fix his wound, he grew impatient, wanting only to return to his apartment and Reggie. Downstairs he heard the commotion of police and press milling around.
John, his lab assistant, walked in, followed by one of the police officers.
“Everything all right?” Marcus asked.
“Wow, Dr. Leon,” John exclaimed, his eyes on Marcus’ bloody shirt. “Are you okay?”
“Sir,” the plainclothes officer said, “maybe we ought to take you to the hospital.”
“That won’t be necessary,” Marcus said. “John can treat me. It looks worse than it is. Doesn’t even hurt now. John, everything’s ready for you.” Marcus indicated the tray of supplies. “Then,” he sighed, “I just want to go home.” He sat down on a stool.
John nodded and went to the sink to scrub.
Another officer approached. “Dr. Leon, I’m Detective Stewart. Chicago Homicide. I spoke to the guard. Can you tell me what happened?”
“Simple. I walked into the office and found Rose divulging confidential information over the phone. I fired her. She was outraged and attacked me. I called for the guard.”
“Was there any kind of argument first?”
“Some.” Marcus looked over at John.
“So, how did she end up on the floor?”
“She jumped on my back and was stabbing me. I had to knock her off. I hate violence.”
“I see.” Detective Stewart jotted a note. “Was there any indication of suicidal tendencies previous to this incident?”
“She thinks... she thought,” Marcus corrected. “She thought the world was ending.”
John was behind Marcus, pulling on his gloves. “She’s right,” he said. “Dr. Leon, take off your shirt, please?”
“Now,” Detective Stewart continued, “the guard stated that he heard her say something about it being ‘All your fault,’ Dr. Leon. And while he went for backup, he heard the glass...”
“Wait. What?” Marcus halted him. “The guard never left. He was in the room the whole time. He didn’t call for backup until after Rose jumped.”
“Sir,” Detective Stewart looked at the notes. “The guard stated he was not in the room at the time. He heard the glass and Rose’s scream...”
“Rose didn’t scream.” Marcus lifted off his shirt. “Well, she did when she stabbed me.”
John fingered a square of gauze. “Where is it, Dr. Leon?”
Marcus pointed to the hole in his shirt. “Right here.”
“I don’t see a wound, sir.”
“What?” Marcus tried to look at his shoulder.
Detective Stewart stepped closer. “No wonder it doesn’t hurt. Looks like she didn’t stab you, doctor.” He closed his notepad. “You won’t be leaving the city, will you?”
“I don’t have any plans to. Why?”
“We’ll be in touch.”
“Damn,” Marcus cursed. “Just swell. Like a bad movie. I get stabbed, Rose takes a dive, and I’m a suspect?” He put his finger through the bloody hole in his shirt and held it up to the door. “Hey, explain this!” Marcus called again to the now departed
detective. “Shit.” He looked back over his shoulder. Dried blood, but no puncture wound. “Damn it. What happened to my evidence?”
“Him,” John said, with a dazed look, touching the shirt. “This is the same shirt you were wearing when he awoke.”
“So.”
“It was soaked with amniotic fluid, his... the same water he laid in for a month.”
Marcus stared at John, dumbfounded.
“Oh, dear God, Dr. Leon. His water healed you.”
Marcus tried to smile. “Healed? I see. So the amniotic fluid is now holy water?” He shook his head and stood up, shirt in hand. “Funny.”
“Why question it, Dr. Leon? You were stabbed; your wound is gone. Why are you such a doubting Thomas?”
Marcus pried John’s hand away from his shirt, then raised his index finger. “Doubting Thomas… would’ve made a good scientist.”
“What does your gut tells you?”
“I don’t listen to my gut.” Marcus moved toward the door. “And you shouldn’t either. You’re a scientist. You should know...” Marcus paused, his voice dropping to a whisper. “John...”
“What’s wrong?”
Marcus quickly looked at the shirt. “John.”
“What?”
“John.” Marcus’ hand tightened around the shirt.
“What, Dr. Leon? What? I should know what?”
“The knowledge of John,” Marcus whispered, then glanced at his colleague as if at a ghost. “I have to go. Thanks for taking care of me.” He backed out of the room.
“But I didn’t…” John called.
The biblical John echoed in his mind on his way back to his apartment. John did know. Rightfully so. Marcus felt he knew why, and understood what he had to do. Mind racing, Marcus passed his turn in the hall, and then retraced his steps. He walked into his apartment to find it was oddly clean and quiet. He found Reggie passed out on the couch. Marcus decided not to wake her. He stared at her for a moment, then tossed his black shirt at the hamper and headed to the bathroom for a shower.
Marcus stood under the water for at least twenty minutes, deep in thought, trying to steam out the vision of Rose hurling herself through the window. He wanted to feel some renewed pain, but couldn’t. Absently, he glided his soapy hand over his skin, feeling nothing. Marcus winced.
After his shower, he put on pajama bottoms relieved that he felt better and didn’t smell anymore. In the kitchen he filled the tea kettle and placed it on the stove. As he turned on the burner his eyes fell on the book on the adjacent counter.
“John.” He spoke the name aloud and moved to the table. He turned back and picked up the object almost reverentially. The Bible. Marcus flipped to the back page.
A whistle? Did I hear a whistle? Reggie wondered. She stirred from her slumber on the couch and jerked up, brushing her hair from her face and cursing. The whistle was coming from the teapot.
She stood up and glanced toward the kitchen where she saw steam fogging the window. “Marcus?” She uttered his name tentatively, walking around the couch.
Elbows on knees, Marcus was studying his tee shirt, clenched in his hands. “Reg,” he replied in a whisper, lifting his head.
Reggie said nothing, only ran her hand down his face as she passed him. “I’ll get your tea. Do you still want it?”
“Yes,” Marcus answered.
In the kitchen, Reggie silenced the annoying pot, grabbed a cup from the cupboard and a tea bag from the canister. She had never seen him in this state before. She walked over to him, reached out momentarily, and then slowly pulled back her hand.
Marcus lifted his shirt over the wound. “Healed,” he said.
Reggie examined the shirt, torn and bloody. Then his shoulder. “Oh my God.”
Marcus sighed and buried his face in his hands. “What have I done? What have I created?”
Reggie touched her fingers to his hands. “What do you mean?”
Marcus cupped his face with his hands and stood up, expelling a protracted breath. He gripped Reggie’s arms for support, and stared straight ahead. Reggie knew he wanted to say something, but couldn’t, that maybe what he wanted to say made no sense to him. Instinctively, he reached around her and pulled her to him.
His spread hands pressed hard. She held on. He pressed his face to hers, then slid down and buried his lips in the nape of her neck. Parted lips. Almost a bite. Resting there. Seeking.
Marcus moved away an inch, then slid his hands up and gripped the collar of her loose shirt. Ever so slowly, as if testing her, Marcus slipped her shirt up onto her shoulders. Then bare chest to bare chest he clung to her, gasping.
It was an exquisite closeness, one she’d never felt before. In that deep intimate embrace she felt both his need and his pain.
She cradled his head like a child’s. “Marcus, what’s wrong?”
Marcus pulled his head back and met her eyes. He caressed her face, and then stepped away, letting Reggie’s shirt drop back down.
Marcus moved back to the table and sat down. Reggie straightened her shirt and knelt down next to him.
Marcus lifted the Bible. “Why did I tell you I was reading this earlier?”
“To find answers,” Reggie replied, crouching by his legs.
“You said, Reg, sometimes there are no answers. Correct?”
“That’s what I told you.”
“Growing up I was always...” Marcus closed his eyes, and sighed “...embarrassed by my mother’s belief that the Bible held all the answers. I thought she lacked education. Never once did I think she was wise.”
“You found your answer,” Reggie said.
“Maybe not an answer. But perhaps a confirmation of something I didn’t want to face. All that happened with the awakening. For the first time, I was utterly confused. Tom dying and then coming back. Devante speaking like Jesus. Knowing all that he did about us. Looking like a seven-foot version of what I grew up worshiping.” Marcus swallowed. “But I had to know. Was he or not? And when I spoke to John, I realized. John could tell me the truth. John.”
Reggie eyed the Bible. “The Book of John? Is that where you found your answer?”
“No.” Marcus shook his head and opened the Bible. “Only seconds before Rose jumped, she was rambling on about the end of the world. The end.” Marcus paused and looked squarely at Reggie. “Revelation. Who wrote the book of Revelation, Reg?”
She stared at Marcus as he sought out a page, then answered, “John?”
“John knew,” Marcus went on. “Jesus promised he would return. The kingdom of heaven on earth. The New Jerusalem. All in the book of Revelation. Chapter twenty, verses seven and eight.” He pointed.
Reggie stood up and leaned over Marcus as he flipped to the back of the Bible. She read the passages Marcus was indicating. “This still doesn’t...”
“‘He will set out to deceive the nations of all four corners of the earth.’” Marcus took the Bible back and closed it. His voice was weak and monotone. “The end begins not when Christ comes to us, because Christ doesn’t come first.” Marcus raised his eyes. “The Antichrist does.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Los Angeles, CA
“Impossible,” Reverend Bailey said into his cell phone. “Sounds preposterous.” He reached to the fold-down table in his limousine and stirred his coffee. “Yes, I’m on my way as we speak. I should be there in...” He looked at his watch. “...fifteen minutes. So in a few hours we’ll find out. And if you’re both right, then we’ll have more than we bargained for. Thank you.” Rev. Bailey hung up and stared at the phone. He sipped at his coffee, tasting fear. Fear of the truth. Rev. Bailey didn’t consider himself easily frightened, but he was honest enough to admit it. The unknown, the long-awaited. Ironic, he thought, that he was close to confronting that which he’d spent his life preaching about.
Westing Biogenetic Institute - Chicago, Illinois
Reggie spent a silent, difficult night at Marcus’ side comforting him through his descent into d
espondence. Thank God he seemed better this morning as he left for the lab, she thought. Sleep had cleared his mind.
She understood his motives and his depression. With this new day, Reggie vowed to continue doing what she did so well with her friend; taking his mind off things, making him feel better. Last night, that had been impossible. Not so today. Now what he needed was a cup of coffee. She balanced a mug in her hand, moving stiffly down the halls, eyes glued to the steaming cup. Light and sweet, the way Marcus liked it.
The guard told her Marcus was in the observatory lab, an extra mile of walking. She winced.
There was no guard outside the wide-open observatory door. It was usually locked. She looked in the window and saw Marcus sitting at his desk, his face inches from the glass wall. He was tapping a pencil over and over on a sheet of paper. She shrugged and walked in.
“Morning.”
Marcus turned in his chair. “Reg,” he smiled. “I thought you were going back to sleep.”
“Nah.” She stepped in. “I got up and showered, ate some corn flakes and...” she lifted the mug “...made you coffee.”
“You brought it all the way from the apartment? I have a maker in my office.”
“You better drink it anyway,” she chided. “So, how’s it going with the data collection?”
“Good.” Marcus sipped the coffee. “Reg, this is cold.”
“I brought it all the way from the apartment, what did you expect?”
Marcus took another sip anyway.
“You better this morning, Marcus?” Reggie walked to the counter adjacent to the desk and hopped up. “You seem to be.”
Marcus nodded and set the mug down.
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